


I don't honestly wish you were dead

by winter_angst



Category: Captain America (Movies)
Genre: Abuse, Angst, Domestic Violence, M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-09-20
Updated: 2020-09-20
Packaged: 2021-03-08 02:01:10
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Major Character Death
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,027
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/26567731
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/winter_angst/pseuds/winter_angst
Summary: If only Brock could be better.
Relationships: Jack Rollins/Brock Rumlow
Comments: 2
Kudos: 16





	I don't honestly wish you were dead

**Author's Note:**

> title: Wait By The River by Lord Huron

Hollywood painted this image of abusers. Slovenly alcoholics with scraggly facial hair who were aggressive and ugly. They used violence because they sought control It made them black and white, two polars. Brock disagreed. They were poised and elegant, clean shaven and handsome. But Jack was charming, he was well liked and highly respected. He didn’t strike Brock because he needed to feel powerful -- he was the CFO for a massive accounting firm. He struck Brock because he could; because Jack was important and Brock was little more than an accessory. Family image was important, it made Jack seem relatable, so after three years, three good years, Jack popped the question. Brock agreed without question: he was absolutely infatuated with Jack. He made Brock feel as if he was the only person in the world. Just a smile gave Brock palpitations. Before Brock had that ring on his finger he was living the dream. Jack was busy but he always made time to spoil his new fiance. He urged him to abandon his MA in Literature, explaining that he had an image for their future. Brock had only hesitated a moment before he unrolled from Harvard. 

That image involved a child, a son in particular, and it didn’t take long for Jack to find a surrogate. It wasn’t too long after that news that Jack changed. It was subtle. They bought a condo and Jack began to lay out his expectations, a requirement to how he wanted his home to look and be maintained. He wanted Brock to stay home, having a housekeeper would make him look poorly. Brock was still starstruck by the beautiful home. He was looking forward to building a little family with the love of his life. So taken with it, he didn’t notice that when Jack smiled, his green eyes were cold and empty. Everything was to be cleaned at all times, the white carpets vacuumed three times a day, the fridge uncrowded. The pillows were to be fluffed and the guest rooms maintained just as well as the rest of the home, even though they were untouched. Brock didn’t realize he was the equivalent of furniture in the house, not immediately. Jack expected him to be neat and presentable so that should he ever bring a guest home, he would be well prepared. 

Jack never brought guests into their home but the standard was set. It was tedious. Brock was intelligent and he found the mundane tasks to be especially boring. So, just three weeks after they bought the condo Brock waited, a three quarter sleeved white cashmere sweater with tan pants, for Jack to return home. Jack looked surprised to see him standing in the entryway, hand clasped in front of him. He took his suitcase and accepted his jacket, something usually done in the living room. Brock would stand in the junction between the hall and the living room. He’d go and put away the jacket into its garment bag and bring the suitcase to Jack’s office while he inspected his work. But today he was eager to bring up his idea. 

“What are you doing?” Jack’s eyes narrowed a bit. 

Brock wasn’t when ‘what’s wrong’ turned from a concerned question to the accusatory ‘what are you doing’. It had taken him by surprise a bit but he recovered quickly. “I was online and I saw that the local middle school is looking to hire a teacher.” 

“No.” 

Jack brushed past him and did his usual rounds, wiping his finger on the mantle of the decorative fireplace. Brock was startled by the no. “I… I wasn’t really asking,” Brock said. 

Jack paused and then walked up to him. He took his face in his hand, a gentle cupping. “You weren’t asking, hm?” 

The hand tightened, his index finger and thumb pressing against his temporomandibular joint. Brock was so startled by the pain all he could do was stare dumbly. 

“You weren’t asking.” Jack said again with a bitter laugh.

The pain doubled and Brock tried to jerk away. Jack just held on tighter. Brock tried to apologize but he couldn’t speak with his jaw locked in. So he whimpered, tears gathering in the corners of his eyes. He didn’t understand, why was Jack doing this? He wished he’d never asked. He wished he had just accepted the no. All of sudden Jack’s back was to him. Brock cupped his face, massaging his jaw as he let a few tears slip down his cheeks. He didn’t understand. 

“No.” Jack said again and looked over his shoulder at Brock. 

“Okay.” 

“I think I deserve an apology,” Jack moved to the vases, peering down inside them to see if they’d been properly dusted. 

It was a Marimekko Urna vase Jack had selected. He’d selected all the decor for the apartment in fact. Brock didn’t have the same eye he did. That’s why he ordered all his clothing. He was always doing so much for Brock. Maybe he did deserve an apology for acting so ungrateful. 

“I’m sorry Jack,” he whispered. “I… I wasn’t thinking. I guess, I get kind of cooped, you know?” 

“I said an apology, not excuses.” 

“I… I’m sorry.” 

Jack walked over and part of Brock wanted to shy away. His heart rate picked up but not the way it did when Jack smiled. It was dread. Jack took his face again, with the same gentleness he had used the first time. Brock swallowed back his plea in time for Jack to kiss him. 

“I forgive you. But I expect you to learn from your mistakes.” 

Brock nodded mutely. He wouldn’t want a repeat of this afternoon. Not ever. 

There were repeats. But soon leaving little purple marks on his face from his fingers turned to long marks on his upper arm from fingers squeezed tight enough to shake him for dropping a bowl (“It’s a goddamn Cyan Design you clumsy bastard!”). Afterwards Jack demanded an apology as he always did and Brock gave him it. Once satisfied he left Brock to pick up the shards. Brock allowed himself a few tears before steeling himself, telling himself that it was the last time he’d make a mistake. He didn’t think that Jack was blameless, especially when he hurt him. It was a form of correction and Brock didn’t appreciate it but… He wasn’t sure what he could say about it without risking Jack’s anger. It wasn’t like he was blindly furious either, he still kept his composure in a way Brock wished he could. Although, save for the first correction, he never let himself cry in front of Jack. He wouldn’t. 

When the baby came there was a new cheer in the house. A place that was starting to feel like a prison opened up into a home once that sweet smell that newborns had graced the house. Jack’s co-workers had sent gifts to the house that Jack was unhappy about it (“Do they think I can’t afford to buy my child a stroller?”) but Brock thought it was sweet. Juggling a baby while being a full time housekeeper for a condo of their size was a challenge. Jack was lenient at first but it was short lived. Jack always took the baby and put him in the crib before he corrected Brock, hard shakes that left his head throbbing. He pointed out the fact that he was the one bringing money in and really, he wasn’t asking much of him at all. Brock had to agree that taking care of a baby and keeping up the cleaning wasn’t so difficult. He apologized and started to fluff the throw pillows. 

As TJ grew, so did Brock’s mistakes. Brock forgot to bring home the coffee Jack liked and after squeezing his arm he demanded his apology and told Brock that since he was having such a hard time remembering basic groceries it was best he use Instacart to have them delivered so he could go right off his list. Brock wanted to object, it was his time out of the house, save for walks with TJ, and needed that reprieve to keep the walls from closing in on him. But he couldn’t ever argue with Jack, not without risking another correction for not respecting him properly. So Brock agreed. He began to feel a bit detached from life, his sole focus their son was in that awkward stage between crawling and walking. He was his whole world and became his confidant quickly. He knew it would end once he started to understand speech but for now it was nice to have someone to talk to. He seemed to like Brock’s voice, big blue gray eyes on him. He wasn’t disgusted by the remnants of his Brooklyn accent. 

Once TJ started to totter around Brock cried. He knew that soon TJ would be old enough for preschool soon and Brock would go back to being alone. He couldn’t think of a date when he became trapped in the condo. He hadn’t made any friends in the area because keeping everything to Jack’s standards took so much time. Besides, how did adults even make friends? He quickly wiped away his tears. It was stupid to cry about it, Jack had explained why it was so important he stay home: what if he needed to bring a guest home early? Brock had to be there. That’s why he had to text Jack when he wanted to take TJ to the park or walks and Jack would either agree or refuse. It made sense. If Brock thought about it, really thought, he could make sense of it. 

One day Brock stepped into the kitchen to scour the sink out with bleach after he washed a butterknife when he heard a thump and TJ started to wail. Brock abandoned everything in a second, all but sprinting to the living room. He had left him with soft fabric blocks, certain he’d be preoccupied enough to carry out a task he did three times a day. But if there was one thing Brock was bad at, it was thinking. That’s why he needed Jack, because who knew how he’d get along without him. 

TJ was sitting, a picture frame lying beside him and a small cut on his cheek from the corner. Brock lurched forward, checking him over for any other bumps or hurts before rushing him to the bathroom where he dabbed at the wound with a q-tip of Neosporin before smoothing on a little tan bandaid. He kissed the spot afterward and wiped away the tears from his cherub cheeks. 

“All better,” he assured him. 

Brock carefully organized the first aid kit and fitted it just right into its spot. Not a single thing out of place, not a single mistake to be corrected. Brock picked up the picture frame to replace it and he looked at the photograph. It was their wedding, picture perfect, Jack looking sinfully handsome in a black tux, Brock looking almost as good in a gray one. It had been the best day of his life, followed up with a beautiful honeymoon in a cottage in Venice, beside the ocean. Brock wasn’t sure what had changed, why he started to make mistakes. It was a miracle that Jack still stood for it. Surely he could find a man who learned from his missteps. But still he stuck with Brock. He was lucky. 

He set down the photo and strapped TJ into the highchair with some shake toys while he scoured out the sink and began to hand wash the floor. The clothes he wore when scrubbing the tiles were stored in the back of his closet. He didn’t want Jack to be angry with him for ruining his nice clothes but he was also expected to be ready at a moment’s notice. In all the years that rule had been in place the only people who came by were girl scouts. So he used old sleep clothes, sweatpants now covered in bleach marks and a black tee. TJ tolerated it for a half hour before he started to fuss, especially when Brock approached. He held his arms up to be picked up but Brock just moved his high chairs so he could wash there as well. He cried for a few minutes and Brock went as quickly as he could without jeopardizing his chances of passing Jack’s examination. As soon as he was done, he washed the cleaner from his hands and picked up TJ. He set him in the middle of the bed as he changed into the clothing he was meant to wear. 

He was watching TJ build a little tower when he heard the lock turn. Brock grabbed TJ who squealed unhappily and he went to the juncture between the entryway and the living room where he was meant to be. He set him back down when the suitcase was held out and Brock took the garment bag. He put them away knowing TJ would be following his father around. Jack never complained about it so it became part of their routine. 

“Brock.” 

It was too soon. His heart began to pound. Maybe he hadn’t fluffed the pillows enough, maybe he forgot to dust the top of the fridge. Maybe his rushed job was showing through. 

Brock stepped into the living room to find Jack holding TJ with a weird smile on his face. “Yes?” he tried not to be outwardly nervous, Jack hated when he was twitchy. 

“Come here please.” 

Brock swallowed and did so. Maybe TJ had done something? “What is this?” 

Brock looked over TJ confused. Jack sighed in annoyance. “His face, Brock.” 

The band-aid. “Oh, he got a scratch on his face.” Brock explained. “He pulled down our wedding photo. It was just a scratch.” 

He never saw his hand move but then his cheek was burning. Brock was too startled to properly feel the pain. He held his cheek, eyes wide. “I don’t need people thinking we can’t watch our child properly. If you cannot do your job, I’ll find someone else who can.” 

Brock couldn’t lose TJ. He needed him. “I’m sorry, I’m sorry, I’ll be better.” 

Jack stared at him, eyes piercing, looking for sincerity. “I’ll give you another chance.” 

Relief flooded his body. “Thank you Jack, thank you. I won’t disappoint you, I promise.” 

“You better not,” Jack said in a warning tone. 

Brock was careful from there on out, watching TJ even more closely than he had before. Brock also put the slap behind him. TJ had hurt his face so Brock had his face hurt. It made sense. Jack knew what he was doing. Brock just had to be better. If he could just do what he was supposed to, didn’t slip up and make stupid mistakes, he wouldn’t need to be disciplined. From that even correction turned to discipline. Front hand discipline, back hand abuse right? But just a few short months later Brock forgot to dust off the Union Rustic vase that sat in the entryway. Jack had swiped a finger over it and slapped Brock. It caught him by surprise and he dropped the suit jacket. Immediately the back of his hand careened into his jaw with enough force to bounce his head off the wall. Pain blossomed on both sides of his face, a rusty taste seeped across his tongue. Everything hung up that moment, Jack staring at him, waiting. 

“I’m sorry.” his voice hitched a bit and he took a deep breath. “I’m sorry Jack.” 

“Pick up my things and dust this. I don’t ask you for much do I?” 

“No you don’t.” 

“Look what you made me do,” Jack sighed in annoyance. “Take care of your face when you’re done.”

Brock leaned down and picked up the items, eyes glued to his hand. He was terrified of being caught off guard and dropping his things again. Who knew what Jack would do if he made the same mistake back to back. He felt numb as he put them away, his thoughts split between trying to understand how he could have forgotten something so basic and the pain in his face. His lip was split and swelling rapidly. He needed to get cold water on it, it always reduced swelling. Jack shouldn’t have to look at bruises he was forced to give to Brock. 

He applied a cold washcloth on his cheek, staring at his reflection, hating himself. A good husband didn’t have to sit away from his family, trying to make sure the products of his mistakes were properly dealt with. He was lucky that Jack stuck around, that he didn’t demand he leave. Brock couldn’t imagine life without TJ. WIthout Jack. 

The backhands turned into the newest form of correction, a fitting punishment because every time Brock stood, staring at himself he applied more and more blame onto himself. Every split lip reminded him that he was a failure of a husband. Every bloody nose reminded him that he was a failure of his father. Every black eye reminded him that he was a failure of a person. 

TJ went to preschool and the loneliness Brock had dreaded for so long hit him hard. The condo was quiet so he left the television on to fill the silence. A backhand taught him that it should have been off when Jack arrived so he didn’t dare turn it on, even when he was at work. He threw himself into cleaning, into being the perfect husband. 

Things were escalating but too slowly for Brock to realize. So the day Brock was slammed against a wall with Jack’s forearm pressed against his throat he wasn’t surprised, but he was afraid. Jack held it there, choking him until darkness started to creep up into the corners of his eyes. Self preservation kicked in and Brock started to try and shove him away, desperately. 

Jack didn’t budge, his eyes cold emeralds burning into his. His vision turned to a tunnel and all he could see were his eyes, unapologetic. 

Then, all there was, was darkness.


End file.
